


we'll be looking for sunlight (or the headlights)

by makeitbetter



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: M/M, the cliche roadtrip au i'm not apologising for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 06:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20353609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makeitbetter/pseuds/makeitbetter
Summary: it fits, in a twisted sort of way, because john can’t see anything but the horizon that waits beyond the sunset and you can’t see anything but john.//(or: they take a road trip; feelings ensue)





	we'll be looking for sunlight (or the headlights)

**Author's Note:**

> they've got that wandering artistic spirit, so this got a little more melancholy than i meant it to be, oops. title is from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=heMTVlawFmM) song.

in one fell swoop, john becomes both twenty one and even more restless than before.

“you ever think about seeing somewhere else?” he asks, late on a thursday afternoon, when you’re both sitting on your bed in the house on forthlin road, sharing his last cigarette between you because he’s feeling generous today. 

you shrug, tasting the tobacco that lingers on your tongue, because the truth is that you haven’t really thought about it - why would you, when the things you care about the most are already here?

“like where?”

“just somewhere else. somewhere that isn’t liverpool. don’t you ever just want to get in the car on a whim and go see what’s out there?”

“okay,” you say, because you’re not one for the impulsive decisions - those have always been john’s thing, “what, are we making a run for it in the middle of the night or something?”

“maybe.”

john exhales a cloud of smoke, and that’s all you say on the matter, because neither of you seem to be sure if he’s joking or not.

**/ **

twelve hours later, there’s a hastily-written note left on the kitchen table, a guitar case in your hand, a rucksack thrown over your shoulder that later gets thrown over the back seat as you climb into the car beside john and lock the door before you change your mind.

(as if you wouldn’t ultimately follow him anywhere he asked.)

he doesn’t look at you - just flicks the radio on to some station playing a reel of elvis hits.

“let’s go, then.”

**/ **

there’s a map on the back seat, but it’s trapped under john’s jacket and your luggage, not being freed any time soon. you have no clue where you’re going - john’s blasé answer of _anywhere_ doesn’t make you feel much better, and when you tell him this, he just laughs.

“you need more spontaneity in your life, macca,” he says, and takes an exit from the roundabout at random, not stopping to look at any of the signs.

when it’s your turn to drive, john puts his feet up on the dashboard and turns the radio up louder, and sings buddy holly out of the open window with no one but you and the stretch of motorway to bear witness to it.

(you almost forget to watch the road.)

if this is what spontaneity is supposed to be, maybe you won’t mind it so much.

**/ **

“daylight robbery, that was,” john grumbles at one point, as he drops a fresh packet of cigarettes in your lap and starts the car up again.

“you were the one that wanted to stop,” you remind him, plucking one and starting to light it up. there’s an ache in your neck from spending four hours napping in the passenger seat, but your heart feels light, empty in a good kind of way.

“can’t go another two hours without a smoke,” john says, and tapes the receipt to the roof of the car, along with the other twenty or so you’ve collected over the past couple of days. “what do you take me for?”

“best not answer that.”

“bastard,” he replies without any meaning, as the car turns back onto the motorway, the sunset bleaching the road ahead of you.

john drives straight on through it, bathed in the hues of crimson and burnt orange, and it fits, in a twisted sort of way, because john can’t see anything but the horizon that waits beyond the sunset and you can’t see anything but john.

**/**

somewhere just outside of the eleventh town you pass through, john falls asleep.

you notice when it happens, because a part of you is always preoccupied with john, even if it’s just listening to the sounds of his breathing even out as he slips off into the first decent sleep you’ve seen him get since the two of you left liverpool. technically it’s his turn to drive, but you don’t want to wake him, don’t want to disturb the peace when it suddenly seems like he’s been chasing it for so long, and so you just keep going, following the road wherever it’s taking you and trying not to think about where you’ll end up.

you wouldn’t care anyway. you wouldn’t care about anything as long as john is here, and as much as that thought should scare you it doesn’t.

by the time he wakes up, the sun is painting the sky with shades of candyfloss pink, and you’re two coffees down and halfway through a third, fingers shaking as they rest against the steering wheel at ten and two. when you try to claim that you’re fine, his hand comes to rest over yours, and his voice is firm even when it’s still thick with sleep.

“paulie,” is all he says, and it’s enough to get you to pull over and get some fresh air.

you want your guitar to fill the silence, because it’s too _quiet_ out here in the middle of nowhere this early in the morning, but the caffeine is still in your system, the tremor in your fingers too much to pluck the right strings, leaving only a broken tune.

john watches you in silence, almost like he doesn’t know what to say, and if you’ve been wondering when he’s going to be ready to go home again, looking into his face gives you the answer.

_ not yet. _

**/ **

maybe it’s partly because of your stupid decision to drive for twelve hours without stopping, but the mood has soured - it hangs in the air, uncomfortable.

john stares at the horizon as he drives like it’s betrayed him somehow, and turns the radio up to avoid any kind of conversation, listening to johnny cash in silence. you count the trees that pass you by, trying to find something to occupy the time that had once been filled with conversation, but you lose count after twenty four.

you duck into a bathroom when the car stops at a petrol station, and there are dark circles under your eyes, a tiredness in them you didn’t even know you could have. you look like a _mess_.

by the time you’re ready to leave, having splashed water on your face to try and make the purple under your eyes disappear without success, john is swearing at the petrol pump with venom in his voice and fire burning in his eyes. everything is terrible, or just a plain inconvenience, and it probably goes without saying that you’re included in that.

“why did you even bring me along?” you sigh, as the swearing gets more and more colourful with every sentence that leaves his mouth, and john stares at you for a moment like you’ve just asked him something as obvious as what colour the sky above is.

(it’s grey - there are storm clouds drawing in).

“why do you _think_?” he snaps - spits on the ground and stalks away with a cigarette already in hand.

**/ **

the radio stays off this time.

john plays his guitar instead, the same melancholic tune over and over again until it’s echoing in your ears and tightening your hands around the wheel. you want to apologise, just to clear the air, but you still don’t know what you’d be apologising _for_, what you could have said to upset him so much.

“don’t you get it?” is all he says when you finally ask, the first thing he’s said in hours, and it doesn’t clarify anything, because _no_, you _don’t_ get it and you bloody wish you did.

john goes back to his guitar - the tune sounds even more distraught this time around.

when you stop again for food, john is out of the car before you’ve even managed to say a word, cigarettes already in hand. you duck inside the shop to grab a packet of gum for the road, because it’s something to do that isn’t staring out of the window and waiting for him to come back like some kind of mourning widow. you try to make conversation with the girl at the till, general chat about what you’ve been doing on your trip so far, and she says she hopes you and your _friend_ have a good time on the rest of your journey.

(it’s said in such a way that your reply gets stuck in your throat, because maybe there _is_ a good reason for john bringing you along, after all, and that wild flutter of hope in your chest is dangerous if you happen to be wrong about this.)

you’re still turning it over in your head when john reappears, looking marginally less pissed off now that he’s had a smoke, now that the circles under your eyes are finally starting to soften - he’s softer too, in the dull light of an overcast day, even when he demands to know what exactly it is you’re staring at.

when you tell him you think you get it now, he frowns at you for a moment, only to roll his eyes. you’ve always been on a kind of wavelength that let you communicate without words - this is no different.

“took you bloody long enough.”

there’s relief behind your answering smile - in an instant, the atmosphere has settled, back to how it should be.

“i never claimed to be the smart one.”

“you have, actually. many times.” john nods over his shoulder, towards the food outlet next to the petrol station. “milkshakes?”

“sure.”

**/ **

you sit in the window seat, watching the world go by and swirling straws around banana milkshakes, throwing witty remarks back and forth just to see the way john’s eyes light up at the challenge of it.

“maybe i _am_ the smart one,” you say, musing into the bottom of your glass. “at least i can read a map. no wonder you don’t have a clue where we are.”

john raises an eyebrow. “i _can_ look after myself, you twit.”

even though you don’t doubt that’s true, you grin at him across the table. “impossible. you’d be lost on this trip without me.”

“never mind the smart one. you’re a smug prick, that’s what you are,” john says, but the insult is ruined by the upwards curve of his lips so it’s fine.

(when he drags you outside, into a kiss that tastes of banana and vanilla, you think that’s fine too.)

**/ **

“to be clear,” john says later, when his hair is mussed from your fingers and his mouth is shiny from being on yours, “i would’ve gone on this trip either way.”

“of course,” you reply, even if you have suspicions that’s not true, and john must notice that you have these suspicions because he narrows his eyes.

“shut up,” he says, and goes back to kissing the smile right off your face.

**/ **

“have you found where we are yet?”

the question hangs in the air between the two of you, in the beats of silence between the individual songs coming through the speakers. john, for the first time, has the map open on his lap, feet up on the dashboard again and a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“we’re on the road back to liverpool,” he answers, casual as ever, a cloud of smoke chasing his words. “aye, turn that up. i like this one.”

you reach for the dial with your free hand; it’s another elvis song, because of course it is, and john sings along like he always does.

“_i’m in love, i’m all shook up -_”

“are you now?”

“fuck off.” the words sound harsh, but they’re spoken around a smile.

you’re smiling too, because you both know the real answer.


End file.
